Radical Philectomy
by smartnsweet1
Summary: House goes in search of appreciation...or absolution? Mild fantasy sm.


Traffic was light, so the journey took only about 2 ½ hours. House parked his bike in the McElderry garage and dismounted gingerly, favoring his tender leg. He searched in the pockets of his leather jacket for his old Hopkins ID, and, finding it, clipped it to his T-shirt so that only his name and photo were visible. The evening air smelled of impending rain; House limped quickly to the passageway that led to the hospital.

The guard barely looked up as House ambled by. The Redskins were in the end zone with less than 4 minutes left in the game. House made his way up to the main lobby and stood in the atrium, his eyes scanning the majestic portraits of the illustrious doctors and scientists that had founded the renowned institution.

The wooden benches under the pictures were empty. Sunday evenings were a time for retrenchment, and for meditation. House walked across the marble tiles to the portrait of William Halsted and, pushing away the bench, eased himself onto the cold floor under the painting.

House sat quietly for many minutes, cradling his cane. Occasionally, his eyes wandered to the portraits of Alfred Blalock and William Osler across the room. _Without the mustache, Osler did look a bit like Wilson… _House quickly looked away.

House leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes looking up at the portrait of the famous surgeon. The kinship he felt was mingled with envy. Recognition a century before was not at the mercy of societal assimilation and obedience to the arbitrary rules of culture. And Osler had waited until after Halsted's death before revealing Halsted's dependency on morphine. _A true colleague and a true friend._

House closed his eyes, but the calm he had hoped for didn't come. Gritting his teeth, he gripped his cane even more tightly. _Fuck them all! _

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The motorcycle tire skidded on the moist asphalt as House accelerated onto the turnpike, causing a momentary yaw that he instinctively controlled by shifting his weight to one side and correcting his steer. That split second was a familiar sensation in his life—a loss of control that could lead to a fatal spill, and the salvation of a seamless recovery that bubbled from his unconscious mind.

And what if he had let it go…? If he had given himself up to the entropy of fate…would he be staring at his shattered corpse, his blood a halo around his body, diluted into rivulets by the night drizzle. _It was so tempting to let it go…_

House grasped the handlebars of his bike even more tightly and adjusted his posture to enhance his vision. The anger had returned.

Wilson. Fuck Wilson. A fair weather friend…and the rain was coming down harder.

…_Much of Princeton-Plainsboro was seated ringside. There was Foreman…and Chase…in the front row. Cameron was sitting a few rows back, pretending to read the latest New England Journal. Cuddy was on the other side. Must be lemonade she was sipping…she looked like at least another month to hatch. House could just make out Wilson's spindly legs through the huddle of attorneys at the far corner of the ring. _

…_House leaned against his corner post and tapped his gloved hands against each other several times. "Let's get this over with," he muttered, knowing there was no one close by to hear. He shouted more loudly this time, "Tell the Pillsbury Doughboy to quit hiding and get his big butt in gear!" House felt the crowd's hiss wash over his bare shoulders. The huddle didn't break._

…_It was Wilson whose eyes avoided House's as the men stood face to face and waited for the referee's whistle. That wouldn't do, thought House, look at me, dammit! When the shrillness broke the silence, House launched his attack. A right to his jaw and a simultaneous left to his ribs. Wilson's feeble attempts to protect himself were futile, and he let out a pathetic groan as he doubled over in pain. This time, House could see as well as hear the crowd's disapproval and boos._

…_A few weak jabs, and Wilson had run for his corner. The man hadn't even landed one punch. House was determined to go all out for the second round. It was the only way. He started with an uppercut and followed with a left hook—to House's dismay, Wilson cried out in agony and collapsed to the deck. Not once had Wilson's eyes met his opponent's. House stormed to his corner amidst catcalls, banging his gloves together til the numbness overcame his fingers. _

…_This was his last chance. At the sound of the whistle, he swung an arm around Wilson's neck and reeled him in close—leaning forward to whisper the taunt in his ear that he knew would snap the oncologist out of his pugilistic lethargy. House opened his mouth to speak and—_

The spray from the wake of the speeding car ricocheted off House's gritted teeth and splashed a layer of mud and debris onto his visor. Fuck. He swung the bike over to the shoulder and spit out the detritus of sand and oil onto the gravel under his feet. He noted the shower of dirt particles on his jacket and jeans and cursed once again. His pants legs were drenched and sticking icily to his shivering legs. Wilson, boxing? Now that _really _was a fantasy. House looked at his watch in dismay. Another hour at least before he reached Philly.

…"_Come in." Wilson's tone was brusque. _

_House entered the office flashing the tickets like a pair of aces. "Front row seats, mid-court, 8 pm."_

"_I'm sorry, House." Wilson said as he turned back to his charts. "We have some unfinished business to take care of."_

_House coyly sat on the edge of the desk. "Water? Bridge?"_

_Wilson looked up. "Off. You're going to break it."_

_House reluctantly stood and leaned on his cane. "Come on," he sighed._

_Wilson didn't look up this time. "I'm not repeating myself."_

_House stared at the top of the oncologist's head for a few moments, then spun around and strode out of the office with as much pride as he could muster._

_Wilson quietly closed the chart on his desk and sat waiting, his hands clasped in a semblance of prayer. The door re-opened within a couple of minutes._

"_You're really going to regret missing this game," House teased. "I've got 500 dollars on the Nets."_

_Wilson smiled politely, but didn't respond._

"_Dmn you!" House walked out of the room once again._

_This time, the door had barely closed before the knob turned again. House limped into the room and mutely plunked into a chair. His eyes focused on his shoes, which he tapped with his cane in a syncopated rhythm. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, he burst out with a plaintive, "All right, let's get it over with."_

_Wilson nodded and walked over to the closet. He opened the squeaking door and reached inside, pulling out his cherry college fraternity paddle. His voice was calm but forceful as he turned and instructed House, "Assume the position."_

_House stood up slowly and bent over, bracing himself on the back of the chair. "How many?" he asked quietly._

"_Six of the best. Count."_

_The first blow was much more painful than House expected, yet he managed to hold back an exclamation and grunt out "One." _

_House gasped, "Two." Wilson's swing was even stronger. House gripped the arms of the chair and grimaced as the third blow struck. His voice quavered, "Three." It would not do for Wilson to see him lose control._

_Muscles tensed, House waited for the next stroke. The soreness in his buttocks was severe enough to overshadow the chronic ache in his leg. If he could only reach for another dose of Vicod—the shock of the fourth blow led house to cry out in pain. _

"_Count." Another stroke followed quickly. House's groan included a trace of the word "Four"._

_Two more strokes. Perspiring, House clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the chair. The paddle's contact knocked him forward and he moaned,"Five." _

_House's breaths were rapid and more shallow. The pain had diffused from his bottom to his legs and back, bathing him in anguish. He turned his sweating face to watch as Wilson took his final swing and ejaculated an agonized cry, "Six."_

_Wilson stood quietly, his arm and paddle by his side as, still breathing rapidly, House slowly straightened himself, but remained facing away. The silence was broken only by House's heavy breathing and the ticking of Wilson's wall clock. House stood almost at attention, his eyes glazed, but his expression blank. No words would come. _

_Wilson couldn't wait any longer. "Say it, dmn you!" _

_House did not move. Wilson shouted again, "Say it!"_

_Still no words. House knew the next series of blows would not stop until he had dissolved in tears. The belt was merciless and his father would continue the beating until he could resist no more. House tightened every muscle in his body and fought not to scream._

Damn this rain! The droplets were streaming down House's face, making it difficult for him to see the road ahead, diffracting the light and teasing him with a rainbow of halos and sparklers. The water dripped into his mouth…it was surprisingly salty, he noted, as he turned the motorcycle off the turnpike and towards his new destination.

House was pleased to see that New York's makeover trend hadn't spread to Philadelphia. The neighborhoods visibly deteriorated the closer he got to 13th Street, determined joggers and strollers walking dogs slowly replaced by streetwalkers of all shapes and genders. Fortunately, the rain had tapered off substantially, the remaining moisture electing to hover as patches of fog and neon-reflecting puddles that lent an air of noir to the misery-en-scene. House parked his bike near the corner and hobbled into a small shop selling adult paraphernalia.

House paid for the items with crumpled bills, and sauntered back out into the night. He spotted the young man at the end of the block, a perfect specimen in his early 20's. Despite the night's chill, the man was wearing a tank T that highlighted his fitness, rippled arm and chest muscles, and an impressive six-pack. He was the one.

Fleabag was a remarkably descriptive term. But it's what I deserve, House told himself as he closed the door of the hotel room after the young man had entered.

"You got a name?" House asked as he locked the door.

The young man grinned, "Sure. Dick." He threw himself on the bed with a graceful leap.

House snorted. "Nope, not there…Dick. I'm not gay."

"Dick" looked a bit surprised. "Well, uh…"

House laid his cane on the side of an armchair and reached for the bag he had just bought. He eased out a long thin flexible cane and swished it through the air.

Dick sat up and pulled away. "Hey, I'm not that kind of a bottom."

House turned and offered him the cane. "That's okay. I am."

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End file.
